Apple of the Private Eye
by truenarnian
Summary: Meet Sgt. Mallory Hudson: daughter of the landlady of 221B, best mate of Dr. John Watson, and partner in crime-solving of Sherlock Holmes (possibly more, but more on that later). But when a certain evil genius is bored and decides to play, he risks Mallory's safety and Sherlock's sanity in the dangerous power play. Note: layout of 221B changed. Casefic. Pre-Reichenbac
1. Prologue

Prologue- A Morning on Baker Street

Mallory

"Morning, Mum!" I called, leaving the flat she rented out to me, 221A, and sniffing the air, picking up the delicious aroma of eggs and bacon. "How're the boys?" I asked, making my way toward her unlabeled flat.

"Morning, dear!" she greeted back. "The boys…well, they're like they always are. Breakfast?"

"Of course!" I exclaimed, pushing open the door and snatching a bit of bacon off the plate. "I've got to go in early today, finish some paperwork on the Hanes homicide we solved last week. Anderson put in an inquiry about the hair; he thinks we messed with its placement. He's always a thorn in our side. I can't wait until he gets fired."

"I didn't know he was going to be," John said as he entered, scraped some scrambled eggs out of the frying pan onto a plate, and joined me at the table.

"A girl can dream, can't she?" I replied.

"I'm not your housekeeper!" Mum said to John, her hands on hips and brow furrowed.

"You're serving Mallory, Mrs. Hudson," John replied, swallowing a mouthful of eggs.

"Because she's my _daughter!"_ Mum exclaimed, giving John a contemptuous glare but letting him continue. "Really, this is ridiculous."

"Oh, come on, Mum," I said, sipping some hot chocolate. "They wouldn't last two days without you."

"Or you," John added. "You're the one that keeps us on good terms with the Yard."

"I keep _him _on good terms with the Yard," I said. "You're alright, but he's…well, you know how he is."

"How could you not?" John said. "He keeps a bloody head—literally, a _bloody head_—in the refrigerator! Who else does that?"

"Well, I'd best be off," I said, sipping the last of my cocoa and zipping the raincoat I never left the house without. "You know how Anderson is. See you!"

John and Mum said their goodbyes, and I made my way out into the hall. I was just slipping my boots on when I heard a gunshot explode from the flat upstairs. I shouted with surprise and fell backward, one boot dangling off my foot. I growled, exasperated, as I shoved my boot on and marched up the stairs toward the flat. I threw open the door with the yellow letter B and asked, "Can't you do a crossword or something and _not _shoot the wall?"

The man lounging on the sofa said, "I'm bored."

"I don't care!"

I slammed the door before his, no doubt, indifferently scathing retort could reach my ears, and I couldn't help but smile. I stomped down the stairs, through the hall and stepped into the cool, brisk November air of Baker Street, turning my collar up against the wind and hiding a smile.

My name is Mallory Hudson. I'm a Sergeant for the Scotland Yard. My mother rents out flats and the men occupying 221B Baker Street were my neighbors and best friends: Dr. John Watson and the only consulting detective in the world, Mr. Sherlock Holmes.

Paste your document here...


	2. Chapter 1

Chapter 1- Mysterious Circumstances

"Why can't Anderson ever trust us?" I groaned to DI Greg Lestrade, as we pulled into the lot for St. Bart's Hospital. "Sherlock's solved countless murders, and he gets hung up over one hair?"

"I know, I know, but he's one of our best," Greg said consolingly.

"If by 'best,' you mean gloriously dull," said a familiar deep voice from behind us, "then yes, he's one of the _very _best."

"Hello to you, too, Sherlock," I said, turning around to greet my neighbors. "I see you got my text?"

"It's not like he's going to turn down a case _you _recommended," John said, catching up with the detective. "I think your mum might have put something in the eggs this morning—I lost him on the way over. He got so impatient with the taxis he decided to walk."

"It's those new shoes of yours," Sherlock replied without missing a beat. "They're two sizes too small and have a thinner sole than your usual boots, and are thus hindering your stride. And they're the most hideous orange color."

I looked down to see the conspicuous shoes the master observer was talking about. There they were, glaring up at me like headlights. "You really should at least get a different color," I whispered to John as I led the company down to the hospital's mortuary.

"They were marked down!" he whispered furiously.

"Here we are," I said, pushing open the double doors. "Hello, Molly," I greeted, and the coroner turned around from the body on her table.

"Morning, Mals!" she replied. "Here about the body?"

"Well, we're not here for the scenery," Sherlock replied coldly, pushing past everyone and bending low to examine the body already lay out on the exam table.

"This is Anthony Hardell. He was found dead on his own couch," I said. "As you can see, his age and weight make it plausible that his heart just stopped during a midafternoon nap."

"But you're concerned about the needle mark," Sherlock said.

John craned his neck and squinted at the body. "What mark?"

"It's miniscule," Molly supplied, walking to the other side of the table and moving the corpse's long, grizzled gray hair away from the back of his neck. "It's just on the base of his head and was nearly concealed by the hair. I only found it after I was washing him down for the autopsy and his hair was all wet."

"Naturally, this throws everything else into question," Lestrade said from beside John. "Did he really die naturally? We can't be sure."

"There's nothing in the house to suggest this mark was gotten by accident," I added, joining Molly on the other side and peering down at the body. "But we've run all the usual tests with the samples we acquired immediately upon entering the crime scene."

"Well? What did they say?" Sherlock asked, impatient.

"That's just it," I continued, leaning over. "There was nothing: blood, urine, skin, brain fluid…no trace of anything abnormal."

Sherlock looked up at me with raised brows. "Nothing?" he asked.

"I wouldn't have called you in if there _was _something, would I?" I answered, peering into his clear green eyes.

"I suppose not," he said, holding my gaze for a few seconds more before standing up, surveying the rest of the body. I came back around to the others as Sherlock continued, "I need to see the crime scene."

"What, you can't automatically pull an amazing conclusion out of thin air?" Lestrade said, irritated.

Sherlock whirled around and glared contemptuously at Lestrade. "Our victim worked from home but spent a good deal of time outdoors. He rather enjoyed online gaming but lost most of the time. Oh, and he didn't have a steady relationship." The detective strode out of the room and I hurried after him after bidding Molly a quick goodbye, leaving an indignant Lestrade, wide-eyed Molly, and apologetic John in our wake.

"You've seriously got to work on your people skills," I said, jogging to catch up to Sherlock. "I got the 'working from home' and outdoorsman bits—the stubble that hadn't been shaved for weeks and the dirt under his fingernails, right?"

"Correct," Sherlock replied, staring straight ahead. "Anything else?"

"I'm afraid not," I replied, shrugging.

"The prominence of the tendons on the back of his right hand, specifically the index and middle finger, showed that he spent a great deal of time furiously clicking something, most likely a computer mouse. You could also see from the bruising on both of the outer sides of his hands that he angrily slammed them down on the desk frequently, probably because he lost."

"And how did you figure out the relationship bit?" I asked as the mortuary doors slammed open behind us: looks like John and Lestrade finally decided to join us.

Sherlock stopped and turned to me, one corner of his mouth turned up in a smirk. "Did you really think such an intense gamer could keep a steady girlfriend?"

My chuckling was lost in the echoing footsteps of John and Lestrade. "The crime scene it is, then," Lestrade said coldly, taking the helm and leading back to the parking lot. Lestrade and I were just stepping into our car when we turned and saw the other two still lingering on the sidewalk. "Oi! You coming?"

"We'll take a cab, thanks," Sherlock said offhandedly.

"We'll meet you there!" John called waving as he clambered into the cab Sherlock had just hailed.

"Come on," I said to Lestrade, getting into the driver's seat and pulling out of the parking space.

As we passed the cab, Sherlock stuck his head out of the window and yelled, "Where _is _the crime scene?"

"Haven't you magically deduced it yet?" Lestrade complained loudly from the passenger's seat.

"Two-thirteen Avery Row," I called, grinning. Sherlock thanked me and his curly head retreated into the cab, and we sped away, ready to catch another killer.

"Here we are, then," Lestrade said, handing over the manila folder I had on my desk. "Here are the original photographs of the body."

Sherlock fingered through the photos quickly, often holding them up to compare the picture and the real thing. I went through the house, being careful of where I stepped as I flicked on the lights. Lestrade was explaining everything that happened.

"A neighbor found him around ten in the morning yesterday, on Monday," the detective inspector said to Sherlock. "She came over because she ran out of mulch for her garden and came in when she found the door unlocked."

"I couldn't imagine that," I said to John. "Walking into your flat and seeing you two dead? Of course, Sherlock would probably find a way to come back to life or something."

"He wasn't killed on the couch," Sherlock said, pointing to the dead man's shoes in the photograph. "The dirt on his shoes was fresh. Look at how his feet are propped up—with his shoes on. No one puts dirty shoes on a couch except for small children. I suspect the murderer dragged him in through the back and then cleaned the carpets." He stopped for a minute and gazed around the living room. "He took extraordinary care to make this look natural."

"But if he went to all the trouble of cleaning up the carpets, why not clean the shoes, too?" I asked, joining the others in the middle of the room.

Sherlock was silent as he surveyed the apartment for a moment before heading to the back of the house and into the backyard. We quickly followed and found him on all fours, peering closely at the soil. It was a nice garden, really. There were all sorts of vegetables growing, some right up to the tall fence that served as a border. I would have taken more time to admire it if we weren't trying to solve a murder. "See these impressions?" Sherlock called to us. "They're where his knees were—the dirt on his jeans corresponds with these impressions. When was the last rainfall?"

"Sunday morning?" Lestrade volunteered.

"Then judging by the dampness of the soil, he died between four and seven o'clock the afternoon before he was found," Sherlock said, straightening up. "He was killed outside while working in the garden. Where are his personal effects?"

"Back in the car," I said, leading the boys back to the evidence. I threw open the trunk and pulled the box toward me, neatly laying all the evidence out. Sherlock promptly picked up the shoes and said, "Just as I suspected. These shoes are someone else's."

"What?" Lestrade exclaimed.

"These shoes are at least three sizes too small," Sherlock clarified.

"So he bought shoes too small for him?" John asked.

"No," I said, catching on. "Those shoes are at _least _five years old, and no one could tolerate way-too-small shoes for that long. They must belong to somebody else."

"Exactly," Sherlock said. "The killer hopped the fence, caught Hardell by surprise, and swapped shoes before dragging him inside." The consulting detective turned to me. "And since when do _you_ know anything about shoes?"

"I may not seem like it, but I'm still a girl," I said. "Some things you're just born with."

"Did the killer not want to leave tracks?" John asked, pulling us back to our main thread of conversation.

"Why drag him inside at all, then?" Lestrade asked. "It could have still looked natural if he keeled over in the garden."

"More suspicious, maybe," John said.

"Perhaps," Sherlock said slowly. "Or perhaps he wanted to draw attention inside." Suddenly, he whirled around and made for the house again, leaving the rest of us clustered around the car. We quickly followed him inside, where he was already peering so closely at the fireplace mantel his nose almost touched it. "All of you, spread out and look for anything out of place. Lestrade and Mallory, you two especially take care. You've seen the house before; you know what it looks like."

"I thought we had covered that when we found the body," Lestrade grumbled, stepping around me to examine the bookcase. "You and John look in the kitchen," he ordered. I led John into the kitchen, which was rather messy: dishes were piled up in the sink, various cereal bits littered the counter and floor, and the trash was overflowing.

I reached into my back pocket and retrieved two pairs of rubber gloves. "Here you are, then," I said, handing one pair out to him. He thanked me and put them on, and we carefully began scouring the kitchen for anything suspicious.

We had been investigating for oh, fifteen minutes, when I saw it, carved on the inside of a cupboard door. "Sherlock!" I called urgently, looking at it as if it were a bomb.

"What did you find?" the consulting detective asked, curious. Lestrade and John came over, and I wordlessly opened the cupboard- it had fallen shut when I let go of it in shock- and showed them the rather large cursive letter _M _engraved upon the wood.

Not even the sound of breathing could be heard. We all knew what that letter meant.

Moriarty was on the move.


	3. Chapter 2

Chapter 2- A Message from the Dark Side

"This is bad," I said, collapsing into my chair, back at Scotland Yard.

"Apparently worse than we thought," John said, taking a seat across from me. Lestrade was leaning against the door with a worried expression. Sherlock was simply standing near a corner, staring into space.

"How does this happen? I thought he was gone for good," Lestrade asked.

"He's like a mole—the more you try to get rid of it, the more stubborn it is," Sherlock said in his speed-of-light monotone.

"What does he want?" Lestrade asked. "And why did he murder Hardell? The man's never even been _mentioned _in a police report or newspaper article or anything! Why did he die?"

"To get our attention," John said. "The shoe swap, the engraving, the murder itself was a plea for attention. He wants us to know he's there, but we can't see him."

"He wants us to be afraid," Sherlock said, turning to all of us. "He wants us to know he's planning something."

I asked, "But why would he tell us ahead of time? That's really stupid, and while Moriarty may be twisted, he's certainly not stupid."

"He's playing with us," Sherlock replied darkly, "like a cat with a mouse."

"Is he really that sick?" Lestrade asked.

"Worse," John said ominously.

Everyone fell silent for a moment, processing our epiphanies. Then I asked, "Hardell was just collateral damage, then?"

"Yes," Sherlock said quietly. "Unfortunately. But we can find Moriarty and stop him, for good."

"He wants our attention, but what does he want it for?" Lestrade asked.

"He's trying to tease us," John answered. "He thinks his newest scheme will be foolproof, and he wants the satisfaction that we can't stop him."

"He's sick _and _smart," I said. "I hate that combination."

Suddenly, my phone began buzzing inside my pocket, signaling a text message had arrived. "Excuse me," I said as I drew it out. _Strange, _I thought, _blocked number. _I opened the message, and it read as follows:

_Enjoy my preview? Can't wait for the show._

_M._

I jerked with shock, and the telephone fell from my hand to the desk. The phone's clattering drew the attention of John, Sherlock, and Lestrade, with all different reactions: Lestrade looked confused, John was startled, and Sherlock's eyes had gained the familiar fire that burned when he was hot on a trail.

"What is it?" Sherlock asked urgently.

"Him," I answered, wide-eyed.

"What's it say?" John asked. I gestured at my phone with my chin, inviting him to read it. He quickly picked up the phone and I could see his eyes flashing across the screen, widening when he hit the last letter. My mobile was passed around to each man, always growing graver after they read the text.

"How'd he get my number?" I asked, inwardly cursing at how shaky my voice sounded. My only reply was silence. Lestrade's brow was furrowed, John was concernedly alarmed, and Sherlock's expression was unreadable, as usual. For a second, I thought a trace of fear had flashed in his green eyes, but it was so quick it had to be a trick of the light.

"Okay, we need to reply to him," Sherlock said, handing me the phone. "My exact words. Ready?"

I readied the phone in my hands and nodded.

"Good. Text him, 'I hope I don't miss it.'" I quickly typed out the words and, after checking for a confirming nod, hit the send button.

"What now?" Lestrade asked.

"Now we wait," Sherlock replied, dropping into the second chair across from me. At the one minute mark, I set the phone in the center of my desk like a sacrificial offering. After three minutes, Lestrade left to get some coffee for us. He was gone for only thirty seconds when the phone buzzed again.

Sherlock, John and I all jerked back: we had been subconsciously leaning towards it for the past two minutes. My heart was pounding as I picked up the phone, and I was sent into something close to cardiac arrest after I read the message.

_Trust me, sweetheart, you won't: you're my leading lady._

_M._

I wordlessly passed the phone around to the pair of men sitting before me: Lestrade hadn't turned up yet. When each had read the message, I asked, "What now?"

"He called you 'sweetheart'," Sherlock said mostly to himself. "It's a personal term, usually referring to a female. And he sent it to _your _phone…"

"Well?" I asked anxiously. "What's all that mean?"

"The worst," Sherlock said, staring me right in the eyes, and seemingly my soul. "It means he's targeting _you._"


	4. Chapter 3

Chapter 3- Danger on the Horizon

_"Me?" _I asked, incredulous. "Why me?"

"He knows you're close to John and me," Sherlock said.

"He seems to know everything about us," John interrupted sarcastically.

"He knows that if _you're _drawn into the equation, then there's no doubt I'll jump in," Sherlock added.

"So he's using me to get to you?" I asked. "That's the most clichéd thing I've ever heard. What's this all mean?"

"We've got to guard you," Sherlock said. "He's going to be coming for you. He's watching you."

"But this is Moriarty we're talking about," John said. "He's going to do this in the most dramatic way possible. He's not going to come out and drag her into an alleyway off the street."

"So what do I do?" I asked.

"What did I miss?" Lestrade asked, holding two coffee cups in each hand and furrowing his brow.

"He replied," Sherlock said simply, not touching the coffee set in front of him. John, recognizing the usual signs of impending rudeness, led Lestrade out of the room, and began explaining. My coffee remained untouched in front of me as I mulled things over, when Sherlock's deep bass shook me out of my reverie.

"Mallory, listen to me," he said, his green eyes wide with worry. "You know Moriarty; you know what he's done. He's a madman, he'll stop at nothing to achieve his goal. You are in horrible danger."

"You think I don't know that?" I hissed. "Sherlock, he strapped a bomb to my chest the first time we met!"

"I know, I was there!" he snapped. "I don't want to let it happen again!" He paused for a moment, collected himself and continued, "I think you should carry your gun, phone and badge at all times. Also, let one of us come with you if you're going out or at least tell us. Mallory, please, just do this for me."

"I'm not a little girl! You don't need to keep tabs on me!" I said indignantly. "Moriarty's not going to corner me in an alleyway and shoot me right there!"

"Do you understand the position I put you in?!" Sherlock retorted. "It's because of _me_ he's doing this to you, and I'm not letting you into danger on my account!"

We glared at each other for a moment, breathing as heavily as if we had just run a marathon. Lestrade and John continued talking outside, now consulting with Donna Minksop, a fellow officer. After a minute of calming myself down, I asked, "Why bring the badge?"

Sherlock's brows contracted. "What?"

"If I'm going to be monitored like a criminal," I said, acting as if it's the most obvious thing in the world, "I want to know why I need to do everything I do."

"Oh," he said with a bewildered expression (yes, it looks as odd as you picture it.) "Well, if you pull your gun on someone, at least you have an excuse." Sherlock regarded me with a bemused expression. "Since when are you so cooperative?"

I shrugged with a smile on my face, taking a sip of the coffee. "Since a lunatic master criminal begins hunting me down."

Sherlock's face broke into a crinkly-eyed smile. "That's my girl," he said, holding his coffee up in a toast.

We were each sipping our drinks when John, Lestrade, and Donna trooped back into my office. "We've filled her in," Lestrade said, gesturing to Donna.

"Good," Sherlock said, standing up and swiveling around to face her. "You'll be temporarily partnered with Hudson while we track Moriarty down."

"Oi!" Lestrade said. "You may be a master detective but you can't order my officers around!"

Sherlock glared at him severely and said, "Well, then, Lestrade, unless you want one of your best dead- and by 'best', I mean one of the sharpest sergeants in the country- then I suggest you follow my orders."

Lestrade glared back and said to Donna, "You'll be partnering with Hudson until the danger's passed, Minksop."

"Yes, sir," Donna said, then looking at me. "Oi, you could _smell _the testosterone!" she said to me, and I couldn't help but smile.

"I look forward to this," I said, standing up and shaking Donna's hand. "And I can nearly _taste _it," I added in an undertone.

Donna smiled. "Shall we go fill out the paperwork?"

"Lead the way," I said, gesturing to the door. Donna and I exited the room, leaving the three men in a stare-down. As soon as I closed the door, my new partner burst into speculation.

"Oh, Mals, did you see that?" she said excitedly.

"What?"

"The way he pushed for your protection! How did you miss it?"

"Come _on, _Donna," I said as we walked side-by-side in the corridor, hoping the disappointment in my voice would go unnoticed. "This is Sherlock Holmes we're talking about. Irene Adler was _naked _the first time they met and he still didn't care!"

"Yes, but you're not throwing yourself at him, are you?" she questioned. "He's got women falling all over him and he doesn't care, and the one woman who doesn't has got him wrapped around her little finger."

"Oh, come on. How on Earth could you think that?"

"You two call each other by name," she pointed out. _"First _names. He hardly ever addresses anyone by _anything."_

"He put my deadbeat dad to death a few years back!" I exclaimed, turning into her office. "We kept in touch, that's it!" She sat behind her desk while I sat in front.

"Excuses, excuses!" she replied, a grin plastered over her face. "Here's what I think: he's attracted to you but doesn't know yet, and his feelings are puzzling him, and we all know he loves puzzles. That's what keeps him from dismissing his feelings."

I rolled my eyes. "Whatever floats your boat, Donna, but-"

"I also think that _you're _attracted to _him_, but you think he'd never go out with you, so you're trying to hide it and destroy your feelings for him."

I sighed. "Is it that obvious?" I asked.

"Only if you're looking," she replied gently. "He does like you, you know. _That _much I can tell."

"Sure he does," I replied sarcastically. "We're friends: he's going to stay that way and I'm going to try to, too. Now, can we just fill this out?"

John

"You know, you didn't have to practically threaten him," I said in an undertone as Lestrade left the room.

"I didn't threaten him, I ensured Mallory's safety," Sherlock replied, examining the photos on Mallory's desk. Picking up a photo frame, he continued, "Pop quiz, John. What does her office tell you about her?"

I heaved a sigh. Sherlock had developed a habit of testing my deductive abilities when he grew impatient. Deciding it would be less tiring to go along on this one, I began looking around the room & trying to figure things out I already knew. "Well, her case files are immaculate while her desk is cluttered: she takes pride in her work?"

Sherlock nodded approvingly. "What else?"

I scanned the room for something else to infer, and my eyes landed on Mals' mid-thigh length rain jacket, crumpled on the ground beneath the coat hook. "Well, her jacket's heavy duty and solid black…does that mean she cares more for function than fashion?"

"Yes, but you already knew that."

I ignored the remark. "Well, she's got several pictures of all of us together on her desk, most of which don't even include her, like a parent taking a picture of a child. Does that mean she looks after us like a mother?"

Sherlock looked surprised. "Very good, John," he said, pausing for a moment before continuing, "But you could have deduced more. Look at what the desk's cluttered with: Post-Its, scraps of paper, pens—either she has a bad memory or is too busy to write anything down properly. Her jacket on the ground: she hung it up when we came in but fell since then, indicating that she's got better things to worry about than a fallen rain jacket. And the photos-" Here Sherlock stopped, glancing down at the photograph in his hand. It was a picture of all four of us (Sherlock, Mallory, Mrs. Hudson, and I) at our Christmas party last year, before any of the guests had arrived; yes, I remember, Mals had set the camera on a timer. The photograph had captured all of us perfectly: Mallory was smiling brightly at the camera, Mrs. Hudson was pulling us all closer together, I was on Mrs. Hudson's right with a surprised expression after Mallory had yanked me into the picture, and Sherlock was on Mallory's left, with a crinkly-eyed smile he only wore when all four of us were together. "The pictures show how much she cares for us—they're all over the place." Sherlock's voice had grown softer as he gazed around the room, taking in all the pictures she had hung up of us, many of which were just Mallory and Sherlock.

Just then, Donna and Mallory came back in. "So, what's our first course of action?" Mallory asked, tying her long, dark brown hair up with a ponytail.

"Nothing," Sherlock replied.

Donna raised her eyebrows. "Nothing?"

"Nothing," Sherlock repeated, replacing the photograph on the desk. "If we take visible precautions, then Moriarty will be spurred on, motivated to act more quickly. We need to take it slow, examine each of his actions for motives and try to predict what he'll do next. He's not getting away with this."

Mallory and Donna snuck a knowing glance at each other.

"What have we got to go on first?" I asked.

Lestrade answered, "Hardell's murder, for one. How did he kill him? Nothing showed up in toxicology from that needle mark."

"If Moriarty's clever enough to get Sherlock worried, he's clever enough to find a poison that vanishes," Mallory said. Finally noticing her fallen rain jacket and crossing the room to hang it up, she continued, "But _why _was Hardell singled out? Did Moriarty just decide to follow  
some random person home and kill him for spectacle?"

"Talk about a temper tantrum," Donna quipped.

"Looks like it so far," I replied. "He really went to town with it, too. Carving the _M_ into the cupboard, the dirty shoes, the knee prints in the garden: he planned his mistakes."

"So now what? We wait for him to take another life?" Lestrade asked.

"Not necessarily," I said.

"He'll make another move for sure, but it won't necessarily be a murder," continued Mallory. "This bloke wants a show. When he commits a crime, he goes for grandeur, macabre, drama."

"The best way to get that would be to take another life," Donna interjected doubtfully.

"The best way to get that would be to commit an impossible crime, like stealing the crown jewels or breaking into 10 Downing Street," Sherlock corrected. "Possibly murder, but that's more unlikely than likely."

"So what do we do?" Lestrade asked.

"Haven't you been listening?" Sherlock replied. "Nothing!"


	5. Chapter 4

Chapter 4- Boundaries Break

Mallory

"Helloooo, boys!" I sang, entering the boys' flat that afternoon with a box of donuts. I tossed my jacket over the armchair in the living room, which seemed even messier than usual. I found John at his computer, typing furiously (probably his blog). Sherlock was poring over photographs and documents and small baggies of evidence, all of which seemed to cover every surface of the room, flat or otherwise. I examined one piece of paper tacked to the wall: it was a photograph of the body of the cabbie that had caused his passengers to commit suicide. What did John call that case in his blog? Oh, yes, "A Study in Pink."

"What're you so happy about?" John asked, eyeing the donuts hungrily.

"Lestrade got pissed off at Anderson and had a shouting match together. Plus, donuts! What's all this?" I asked, still smiling. "You've been busy, Sherlock. I love the new wallpaper, by the way."

"I hacked into the Yard records for all these documents, and the evidence I gathered myself," Sherlock said, not looking up from his microscope.

"I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that," I said, setting a donut next to a photograph of a man with his head smashed in.

"He's going over every bit of information that has to do with Moriarty," John said, taking a donut and stuffing a quarter of it into his mouth.

"What are you doing, then? Writing in your diary?" I teased, taking a napkin and wiping his face with it. "My God, you eat like a child."

"Oh, like your manners are impeccable," John replied, snatching the napkin out of my hand and violently wiping the rest of his face. "I'm going through all of my blog posts and printing any up that have to do with Moriarty."

"So you're making a Moriarty-dictionary?" I asked, taking a bite of a chocolate donut. "And where's Mum, anyway?"

"Having an argument with the butcher across the street and three doors down," Sherlock replied without missing a heartbeat.

"Good," I said. "He always rubbed me the wrong way." I leaned against the edge of John's table and asked, "So what can I do?"

"Well, you can start by getting _clearance _for the police reports and records,"John said, glaring at Sherlock.

"Already done," Sherlock replied.

"Should've guessed," John said in an undertone to me.

"I'll catalogue everything," I said. "That way, we can keep track. Let me get my computer." I left the flat and briskly walked to my own just down two flights of stairs. It was a small thing, really—one bedroom and bathroom, tiny kitchen, and small living room—but it served me well. Besides, most of the time I'm with the boys anyway.

I quickly retrieved my laptop from where I left it yesterday: on the coffee table facing the television. Intending to turn it on as soon as possible, I flipped it open and very nearly dropped it when I saw the note taped to the screen.

John

"Sh-Sherlock! John!" Mallory's shaky voice called from her flat. Sherlock and I looked at each other for a split second, and then bolted from our seats, alarmed by the fear in her voice. There was only one thing that could put that fear there.

We burst into her flat, where she was staring at her turned-off computer set on the table like it had electrocuted her. "Mallory, what's wrong?" Sherlock asked, alarmed. She raised a rigid arm and pointed at a small rectangle of paper taped to the computer screen. I went forward and ripped it off, and my eyes widened as I read the note.

_So you've deduced my plan. Bravo! There's plenty more where that came from._

_M_

I wordlessly handed the note to Sherlock, who had a muscle jumping in his jaw by the time he was finished.

"He broke into my flat," Mallory said, horrified. "He broke into my flat!"

"This is bad," Sherlock said, seemingly at a loss.

"D'you think so?" Mallory retorted sarcastically.

"How did he get here?" I asked. Just then, the front door opened out in the hall, and I called, "Mrs. Hudson!"

"Mum!" Mallory called, running out of the flat and meeting her mother in the hall. Sherlock and I followed and found the two women hugging, the elder looking pleasantly surprised.

"Mals, is everything alright?" Mrs. Hudson asked, smiling. "Is anything the matter?"

"Break-in," Sherlock supplied in a clipped tone.

Mrs. Hudson's face suddenly grew serious. "Oh, dear, it must have happened while I went shopping for groceries. What did they take?"

I glanced at Sherlock, wordlessly inquiring whether or not to tell her. After receiving a nod of allowance, I said, "Nothing, but they left an alarming message in Mallory's sitting room."

Mallory and Mrs. Hudson separated, and the latter said, "What did it say?"

"It was a threat," Sherlock answered. "Towards all of us."

"Should we call the police?" Mrs. Hudson asked.

"No," said Sherlock. "Not yet, anyway."

"Then what do we do?" Mallory asked worriedly. "Should we camp in a hotel or something?"

"No, that's no good," Sherlock replied. "He'd find us anyway. The best thing to do is not leave this building until we can find a solution."

"How long? Mals and I've got work," I said. With a scathing look from Sherlock, I amended, "Although this takes precedence, I suppose."

"Call in sick tomorrow, John," the master detective ordered. "Mallory, Lestrade knows our situation; he'll let you stay home. And Mrs. Hudson, it appears that we can't have that roast chicken you've been planning on cooking Thursday."

"I'm not even going to ask," Mallory said, rolling her eyes.

Sherlock strode over to the front door and locked it, declaring, "Lockdown begins now!"

"Locked up with him for days?" Mallory asked regretfully. "I don't know who'll kill me first, him or Moriarty."

I could only nod grimly. A bored Sherlock was bad enough, but a Sherlock that was cooped up all day? We had a trying few days ahead of us.


	6. Chapter 5

Chapter 5- Lockdown

Mallory

We all had different reactions in the first hours of the newly-imposed lockdown. Mum took it upon herself to spend the hours cooking delicious meals for us and to clean all of the flats at least four times each. John was relatively calm, but you could see him getting bored when there was nothing new online or in the paper. I was jittery and restless, not used to being cooped up in the house all day long. Sherlock would only lounge on the couch and turn objects from his cases over and over in his hands, occasionally spouting off a random observation of the criminal. I was charged with keeping all the guns and assorted weapons away from him: he might add another gunshot emoticon to the wall if left unsupervised.

Nothing happened much the first full day. After I finished the Moriarty-catalogue, I resorted to watching the telly most of the day, occasionally popping popcorn or shoving Pop tarts down my throat. John was either posting again on his blog or filling out paperwork for his office. Mum was bustling around a lot still, and I could deduce no clear intention from her. Sherlock was studying every Moriarty-related bit of evidence, going over everything at least five times with my catalogue clutched in his hand. I let him bustle around—I didn't feel like listening to one of his million-miles-an-hour explanations.

On the morning of the second day, I was doing the jumbles in the puzzle section I had stolen from John's daily paper. I was doing alright, but I couldn't get the last word, the letters of which were _a, e, t, e, h, r, _and _t_. I sat in Sherlock's usual armchair in my living room for ten minutes, my brows aching from being drawn together for so long, when I heard the chair's owner's deep voice say from behind me, "The word's _theatre_."

I jumped in my seat, startled. "Christ, Sherlock, don't sneak up on me like that!" I exclaimed, writing the letters into their boxes. "And thanks," I added irritably, watching him sink into my sofa.

I tried to focus on the crossword, but I could see him sneaking longing glances at the paper out of the corner of my eye. "Oh, just take it!" I said, tossing the newspaper and pen in his direction. "If you'll quit looking over my shoulder it's worth it."

"Oh, thank you, Mallory!" Sherlock said appreciatively, desperate for something to interrupt his excruciating bout of boredom.

"You must _really _be bored if you'll settle for the puzzles in the paper," I grumbled. "Hey, could you toss me a Harry Potter?" I asked, gesturing to the bookshelf to his right.

"Which one?" Sherlock asked, tilting his head backward to get the shelf in sight.

"Surprise me," I replied. Sherlock reached up to the shelf and caught _Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban_ by the corner, pulling the dilapidated copy from the shelf and tossing it to me. "Oh, good, you got one of my favorites," I added, eagerly opening the book up.

Sherlock studied the shelf for a minute, and then asked, "What makes these books so special?"

"S-sorry?" I asked, already lost in the book.

"This entire bookshelf," Sherlock answered, "is special. For one thing, it's at eye level when standing and in reach when sitting, implying favoritism. For another, all the other shelves have books haphazardly shoved in, while these books are carefully placed in height and chronological order. What makes this shelf different?"

I looked up at the shelf in question. It _was _where I kept my favorites, since it was next to the comfiest chair near the fire and reachable sitting down. All of my favorite books were there: the Harry Potters, Chronicles of Narnia, and Lord of the Rings sat there, some editions nearly falling apart while others were pristine replacements.

"Well, they're all my favorites," I replied. "What?" I asked suspiciously, noticing Sherlock's furrowed brow.

"Nothing," he answered. "I just never had you pegged as a fantasy lover."

"Oh, come off it!" I exclaimed. "You had to have seen me with at least some of those books in your flat."

"Yes, but I assumed you had only borrowed them, because of their varying conditions. Why are some perfect and others falling apart?"

"I do believe that's the first time you've ever asked me a sincere question," I said, jokingly astonished. It took Sherlock a second before he figured out it was a joke, and when he smiled I continued, "I have to replace a lot of the books because I've either had them for so long or have read them so many times. Have you ever read any of them?"

"No."

"Really? You never picked up one of those books even though you complain of boredom like a toddler?"

"Correct."

I chewed the inside of my cheek, wondering if Sherlock would take kindly to the suggestion forming inside my head. Meanwhile, he had tossed aside the puzzle section, completed in his neat printing, and before he could begin whining again, I got up from my chair and strode to the books, shelving _Prisoner of Azkaban _and pulling out, even _more _dilapidated, _The Philosopher's Stone. _When I turned around, I found Sherlock sitting in his usual chair, previously occupied by myself, and he looked rather unhappy about something.

"Oh dear, you've left it all warm," he said, shifting around.

"Can I have my chair back?" I asked, incredulous at his ability to move without making a sound.

"No," he said stubbornly.

"Fine then," I said, plopping down into Sherlock's previous seat, curling up into the warmth. "Shall we begin?"

"Begin what?" he asked.

"Well, I'm not going to have both of us cooped up and at each other's throats any longer," I explained, opening the nearly-destroyed book. "So I'm going to read to you. Possibly everything up on that shelf. If I read and you listen, then neither of us will be bored."

"Do I get a say in this?" Sherlock asked.

"No," I answered, just as stubbornly as his answer before, and his eyes flashed over me with a curious air. Taking advantage of his taken-aback silence, I began to read aloud. "Chapter 1: The Boy Who Lived…"

Mrs. Hudson

_The second morning of lockdown seems longer than the first_, I thought as I gently placed the turkey that would become tonight's dinner in the oven. I looked around for the next dish I had to attend to and was surprised when I found everything had been taken care of: the green beans were boiling, the mashed potatoes were being kept warm on the stove, and even the wine had been taken care of. I checked the time: only eleven o'clock. Then, I remembered the bread I had been baking in Mals' oven upstairs, and I nearly upset my tea.

I had put the dough in nearly an hour ago! "Oh, dear!" I said, setting the tea on the counter and rushing to my daughter's flat as quickly as my hip would allow. When I made my way to my Mals' door, however, I couldn't bring myself to interrupt the scene before me.

Mallory, wearing her favorite jeans and a new blue blouse she bought the other day, was curled up on her sofa with one of her beloved Harry Potter books open on the arm, reading aloud for Sherlock, dressed in his usual black shirt and trousers. Mals was smiling as she always would when reading, especially if it were one of her favorites. As if by some miracle, Sherlock was smiling, too, listening to her avidly. Mallory always _did _have a talent for storytelling.

_"'So the Stone's safe as long as Quirrell stands up to Snape?' Hermione asked. 'It'll be gone by next Tuesday,' Ron moaned._" Mallory finished the chapter with a smile and looked up at Sherlock. It seemed their eyes locked for a second, and their smiles widened into grins, but then Mallory noticed me and said, "Oh! Mum! What's up?"

Sherlock was jerked out of their little world and swiveled his head to face me. He still looked happy, but that grin he had been wearing before fell into only a polite smile. "Good morning, Mrs. Hudson," he said fondly.

"Morning, dear," I replied to Sherlock, and then directed my next sentence at Mallory. "I'm just coming to check up on the bread." As I moved into the kitchen, I asked, "How are you two doing?"

"Alright. I think I could make a Potter fan of Sherlock yet!" Mallory declared.

"Are you enjoying the book, Sherlock?" I called, opening the oven, taking the bread out with my still-mitted hands, and carefully setting the pan on the stove.

"I rather am," Sherlock admitted. "Your daughter is an excellent storyteller, Mrs. Hudson." I glanced back at the pair for a second, and I could see them share a fond glance. Mallory had the smallest hint of a blush tinting her cheeks red, and she was biting her lip as she always does if someone compliments her and she doesn't think she deserves it. Sherlock was gazing fondly at her, and it's the first time I've ever seen him look…_human. _

They'd make such a great couple if they could realize they _were_ one.

Mallory

By one o'clock, I was as bored as you can get, with Sherlock, John, and I sitting in my flat. I had finished reading _The Philosopher's Stone_ to Sherlock that morning, and because I got so tired of talking, we decided to begin tomorrow with _Chamber of Secrets_. John was typing, Sherlock was scrutinizing a baggie of dirt particles, and I had created a game where you had to watch the clock and eat only one crisp a minute, trying to make it last the whole sixty seconds before the next minute began. It really was rather boring, but it wasted time like a charm.

I had eaten my twentieth crisp when the doorbell rang. "I'll get it," I called, getting up and gripping my gun in its holster, just in case. "I ordered a coat off the internet a few days ago, that's probably just them."

I peeked out of the peephole of the door, but all I could see was a baseball cap with the union flag garishly embroidered across the bill. Shrugging, I opened the door, only to be met with the annoyingly superior face that had once put me in a bomb vest.

I only had time to draw in a surprised breath before Moriarty assaulted me.

He reached to the hand still gripping the door handle and swiveled me around, twisting my arm painfully behind my back. His other hand came up to my mouth and covered it with a pungent cloth, the scent of which was already making my eyelids droop. I struggled against him and my foot caught on a table beside the door, and a vase cascaded onto the floor and shattered. The vase must have tipped the boys off, because I heard thumping footsteps coming from my living room.

John

We burst into the hall to find Mals in the arms of an unknown party, kicking and clawing at her captor. I pulled my gun, but I already knew it wouldn't work—I might end up shooting Mals. The captor already had her halfway across the sidewalk, and I only caught one last look of her blue eyes, wide with terror, before she was dragged into a waiting car, which sped off down the street as soon as the doors were closed.

I chased the car for some time, committing the plate number to memory as I ran, but it was moving too swiftly for me to keep up. Begrudgingly, I returned to 221B, where I found Sherlock kneeling by the remains of the shattered vase, clutching one plaster shard until blood trickled down his hand and dripped to the floor.

Mrs. Hudson

I heard the crash downstairs and hurried to the source as fast as I could. When I reached the top of the stairs, I found John clutching his gun in the front doorway, breathing as heavily as if he had just run a marathon. Sherlock was crouched down, his back to me. "What happened?" I asked as I came down the stairs, bewildered. "Where's Mallory?"

John looked up at me, with an expression of pure guilt. Sherlock slowly stood, his back still to me. "She was taken," Sherlock said in so low a voice I couldn't catch it all—not that I wanted to.

"W-what?" I asked disbelievingly.

"She was taken!" Sherlock roared, spinning around and glaring at me with so much rage I could almost feel it. "Moriarty came here and took Mallory! He came right in and stole her from us!" He angrily threw something small against the wall, and I could see blood dripping down his open hand. "From me," he added vehemently, breathing as heavily as John.

John 

I was at a loss. I've never seen Sherlock so emotional. I couldn't look at him- no man should be looked at by another in such a state- and I couldn't bear looking at Mrs. Hudson, either. We just let her daughter get kidnapped by the smartest evil genius in the world—how could I look at her? We were silent for a moment before I said, "Come on, Mrs. Hudson—I'll explain everything in the kitchen."

With my eyes averted, I walked over to her, carefully avoiding the shards of the vase. Leading Mrs. Hudson into the closest kitchen- Mallory's, I remembered painfully- I glanced back at Sherlock one last time. He seemed to have become a statue, and an imposing one at that: his at least six-foot frame dominated the hall, shoulders squared menacingly; long-fingered hands (one of them bloody) curled into fists, the tendons standing out over his knuckles. His eyes were the most terrifying- his green eyes burned with fire that came from a more intense cause than finally solving a difficult murder or even chasing the killer down. No, this flame was different—intense and terrifying, the flame no one would want to be burned by. The flame that burned only for Mals.

Leading Mrs. Hudson into the kitchen, I sat her down at the table and put the kettle on to boil. I began explaining everything to her, beginning with anything we hadn't told her about Moriarty's previous appearances. It was horrible having to tell her everything, but she took it all in with grim acceptance.

"Where is my daughter now?" she asked, and the kettle began whistling.

I prepared the tea and took the moment to think of an answer Mrs. Hudson would be able to hear. Coming up with nothing better, I simply said, "We don't know, but Sherlock and I will find her. I promise."

I gave her the tea and sat down with her, and she asked, "Will she be alright, John? Will I see my daughter alive again?"

I only sipped my tea because I couldn't bear answering.


	7. Chapter 6

Chapter 6- More Questions Than Answers

Mallory

The first thing I was aware of was the painfully bright light directly above me. Even though I was directly facing it, I could tell it was above me because of gravity's pull on my body, which was laid out on what seemed like a table. I could smell a recognizable-yet-unfamiliar odor in the air, but couldn't recall what it was. My arms were pulled up above my head, something metal on my wrists. I tried pulling my arms down but couldn't: the metal things must have been handcuffs. I experimentally drew my knees closer: my ankles must be handcuffed, too. I was still drowsy from whatever drug Moriarty had used on me, and it took a few moments for my eyes to adjust to the harsh light before I could register the shadowy figure standing just a few meters to my right.

"Good afternoon, Sleeping Beauty," Moriarty's singsong voice rang out. "You've finally awakened. Late, too—it's just turned four o'clock."

"Please tell me it wasn't with a kiss," I said, more bravely than I felt.

If I could clearly see Moriarty, I'm sure he would be wearing a smirk. "Don't worry sweetheart, I'll leave that to your Mr. Holmes."

I heaved an irritated sigh. "Why does everyone assume we're dating?" I asked.

"You two act like it," Moriarty pointed out.

I ignored his remark—it had to be to make me more prone to suggestion. "Have you put makeup on me?" I asked, finally recognizing the strange odor. I hadn't worn makeup in years, that's why I couldn't recognize it immediately. But why was it on me now?

"Yes," he replied. "I have. I just needed a few pictures. You know, for threats." He pulled out his phone and displayed a few photos of my unconscious self. I will admit, he was skilled with eyeliner: he really made my sleepy, half-open eyes look like sapphires. He made the rest of my face look like I belonged on a runway in Milan.

"Great work on my eyes," I remarked.

"I'm flattered," Moriarty replied, putting the phone away. "You're rather lovely on your own, but I had to refine you a bit—get their blood boiling."

"Tell me your whole plan?" I demanded hopefully.

"My darling Mallory," Moriarty said, a little too fondly for my liking. "You know me better than that."

"Well, if it didn't work on _Doctor Who, _I guess it wouldn't for real," I said regretfully. "Worth a try, anyway. At least tell me this, Moriarty: why have you brought me here?"

Moriarty smiled sinisterly. "Would you really want to hear my answer?"

"Will it be the truth?"

"I'll make you a deal," Moriarty said, bending down and putting his chin on the table near my head, so I could feel his breath on my ear. "An answer for an answer. _Truthful. _Deal or no deal?"

I turned my head enough to glare at him but not face him head on. "Deal," I said with finality. "You answer first."

Moriarty smiled, stood up, and began pacing around my table. "Very well, then. I've brought you here because it was convenient for my plans, and it's an infuriatingly simple location to decipher that will drive your dear Sherlock mad. My turn: how is it that you can stand Sherlock Holmes, and he can stand you?"

I shrugged as convincingly I could in my restraints. "I don't know, we just do," I answered, annoyed. Why does this keep popping up? "I put up with his rudeness, and he puts up with my quirks. My turn, now: what happened after you knocked me out?"

"Always the practical one," Moriarty said in a condescending tone.

"Answer the question," I demanded.

"Very well, _Sergeant," _the genius taunted. "We drove you to an undisclosed location where we handcuffed you to the legs of this table and you slept for, oh," he consulted his watch, "about two hours. Your phone's been taken out of commission—couldn't leave any tracks, could I? Your gun's been destroyed, too—sorry about that, it was in excellent condition."

"Thank you," I said. "I was rather fond of it. And clever with the handcuffs, too—I can't move from the table because of my own weight upon it."

"Thank you," Moriarty replied. "Now it's my question, then: why is Mr. Holmes infatuated with you?"

"Why does everyone keep thinking that?!" I exclaimed, straining against my handcuffs. Oh, how badly I wanted to throttle him then. "We're just friends! He's not attracted to _anyone, _and who in their right mind would want to go out with _me?" _

"Come _on, _Mallie girl," Moriarty whined. "Can't you see it? The way he talks to you, reveals his plans to you, even letting your annoyingly frequent literature references go without comment! He's paying attention to you, more than he would even Dr. Watson sometimes. Oh, Mallory, you should see the way he looks at you when your back is turned. I guess you'd know, though: you've given that look to him quite a few times, haven't you?"

"Stop it!" I exclaimed, unsettled. "He only does all that because…" I trailed off, not knowing what to say. There really _was _no reason he put up with me. Moriarty may only be trying to unsettle me, but he _did _have a point there. Pushing it to the back of my mind, I said, "My question now: why did you murder Anthony Hardell?"

"I didn't," was his simple reply.

"That's not possible," I said. "You or someone working for you murdered him and made it look like an accident to grab our attention!"

"Which was exactly what I _wanted_ you to think," Moriarty said teasingly. "Would you like me to explain?"

"Go right ahead," I replied, infuriated.

Smiling, Moriarty began. "First, I'd like you to recall the day we met."

"Oh, when you threatened to blow John and me to bits?" I asked sarcastically.

"The very same. What did I tell you three I was?" I thought back to that fateful night, the one John called 'The Great Game' in his blog. Moriarty had drugged John and I and strapped bombs to us. He gave John an earpiece and sent him out to meet Sherlock alone, who had arrived with the intent of handing the Bruce-Partington missile plans over. I was only brought into the play when Moriarty made his grand entrance: he had decked me out in bombs like a Christmas tree and led me out with him as if I were his date to prom, with the sole purpose of making Sherlock uneasy. Sherlock had de-bombed us and picked my hands free once Moriarty left for a moment, but we were brought back into danger when little glowing red dots appeared on our chests: the laser pointers of snipers. Sherlock was about to shoot my discarded vest and blow up the whole place when Moriarty's phone began ringing, and he abandoned his pursuit and let us go. I always sigh with relief whenever I hear his ringtone, 'Staying Alive' by the Bee Gees, playing.

I was combing over everything I remembered from that night when I found my answer. "You told us you were a consulting criminal," I answered. "What's that got to do with Hardell?"

"He was inquiring about my services," Moriarty replied. "Had a cousin who was getting on his nerves. I heard him die on the phone, so…I decided to use that to my advantage. I prepped the entire house—burned his dirty clothes, destroyed his mobile, and made the needle mark. My question, now: why did I make the needle mark?"

I scrolled through the section of my brain that was always questioning a criminal's motives, always asking why. "You had to make it look like a crime somehow," I finally answered. "You had to make something look suspicious."

"Correct," Moriarty said, impressed. "There wasn't actually anything in the syringe when I made the mark. You're smarter than you look."

"I learn from the best," I replied venomously. "My turn: why are you doing all the legwork? When we first met, you said yourself you don't like to get your hands dirty. So why now? Why me? What makes me so special?"

"Oh, I've been waiting for that question," Moriarty said eagerly. "I was wondering if you'd ask it."

"Answer whenever you like," I said impatiently.

"Thank you, I will," Moriarty said, mockingly polite. "Holmes prides himself over figuring out a criminal's patterns. He loves being able to predict what they'll do next. So what would _anyone _do if they wanted to baffle and infuriate your darling detective? Easy: break their pattern. I can keep him guessing because I _have _no pattern; that's why he hasn't caught me yet. Now it's my question, Mallie dear: do you really think your dear Mr. Holmes will swoop in and save you?"

"Absolutely," I said, doubtless.

"I wouldn't be so sure," Moriarty replied. "You see, I'm going to make this as painful for Sherlock as possible. That day we met, I promised to burn the heart out of him—and now, I've found out how."

I glared at him suspiciously, and he continued. "I'm going to hide you from him—probably only a few hours will go until he finds you. But it will be just long enough for me to administer your slow demise, and he'll have time only for a single glance before you breathe your last breath. And then, after he realizes he's been beaten in the cruelest way possible, after he knows I've bested him in the worst way, when he realizes I've taken away the one thing that makes him human, I'll kill him when he cries!"

I was too horrified to respond. There was heavy silence for a few moments, and then Moriarty said finally, "If there are no more questions, then I'll see you later." He turned on his heel and walked into the darkness, and I could hear a door with a metal handle open and close a short distance away. I drew a long, shaky breath as I tried not to stare into the glaring spotlight above me, radiating its intense light and heat down on me.

Sherlock, John, where are you?


	8. Chapter 7

Chapter 7- Things Brought To Light

John 

It's been two hours and we've gotten nowhere. We've been combing over every bit of information and evidence we had on Moriarty. Sherlock had gone to his Mind Palace several times already, each trip unsuccessful. He often returned to feverishly poring over the Moriarty-catalogue Mals had made, reading and re-reading every line at least ten times. Mrs. Hudson was taking it far better than I thought she would; but then again, she had managed to hide Irene Adler's phone from the CIA, so normal standards probably don't apply to her. We had gotten into Mallory's Mephone account, but nothing showed up on the tracker, so we phoned Lestrade and gotten his computer techs working on finding out where and when the phone was destroyed—it might lead to Mals. They're also tracking the plate number, but they've gotten nowhere so far.

Sherlock was just coming back from another Mind Palace visit when his phone, perched on the arm of the chair he favored and Mals often stole, vibrated, signaling the reception of a text. It seemed he had flown from the doorway to the chair in a millisecond: he caught it at the end of the first ring and remained hunched over the arm, not even bothering to stand up properly. He slid his thumb across the screen and read whatever was on the phone silently. His facial expression didn't change a bit, but I could pick up the single moment when he completely froze with…well, I don't know. Shock? Horror? Anger? No one could tell with Sherlock.

He straightened up slowly, his eyes never leaving the screen. "She's safe John, but not for long," he said darkly, tossing the phone onto the seat. "We have to find her soon."

"What did it say?" I asked, but Sherlock was already re-reading the Moriarty-catalogue again. I reached over, picked the phone up, and read the message, trying not to throw the mobile across the room when I was finished.

_The star of the show is all prepped and ready!_

_M_

And then, there was a photo of an unconscious Mallory, but something was…off. It took me a minute before I realized that she was wearing _makeup. _And it was done rather wonderfully, too. She almost never wore any of the stuff, only if there was some proper Yard function or something. She certainly wasn't wearing it when Moriarty kidnapped her. So why…?

"Sherlock?" I called. "Have you noticed her face?"

"What about it?" Sherlock asked.

"The makeup! She never wears any!"

"Oh, yes, that," he replied offhandedly.

"Well, why is she wearing makeup now?"

"I don't know."

I honestly thought I'd never hear those words come out of his mouth. "You don't _know?" _I asked incredulously. "How?"

"I don't know, John!" he angrily replied. "I don't know where Mallory is, I don't know what Moriarty's doing to her, and I don't know if we'll ever see her again! I'm trying to figure everything out, and you're not helping, John, so shut up!"

"Okay, Sherlock, calm down," I said. He only scowled down at me. "We _will_ find her. Mals will be back before Moriarty realizes she's gone."

His mouth tightened into a taught line as his hands curled and uncurled into fists, and then he threw himself into the chair opposite mine. "It's driving me mad, John," he confessed. "I can't stand not knowing if she's okay or not."

"That's okay," I soothed. "It just means you're human. She's part of our family, of _course _it's driving you mad. It's driving me mad, too. And we can't forget about Mrs. Hudson."

"It's not just that, John," he continued. "Over the past few months, I've just…I've been feeling."

I stared at him, confused. "What have you been feeling, Sherlock?"

He was silent for a moment before saying, "John, you're a doctor."

"I am," I replied uncertainly, not quite sure where this was going.

"If you're a doctor and I'm your patient, I can ask for 'patient confidentiality'."

"Yeah, so? If you've got a mole or something, I'm not going to tell anyone about it." I was completely bewildered by the path our conversation had taken when I thought of what had made it turn so drastically: emotions. "Okay, Sherlock, doctor to patient, then: what have you been feeling?"

He didn't show it, but he seemed glad that I had made the intuitive leap. "That's just it: I don't know what I've been feeling," the detective said, almost as if he didn't know what he was going to say before he said it. "It's strange, but good, most of the time; like being nervous in the queue for an amusement park ride you already know will be amazing."

"When do you feel this way?" I asked, trying to narrow down the causes like I would a disease.

"Whenever it's you, Mallory, and I working together on a case," he answered. "Well, sometimes. Others…it's hard to explain."

"What did you mean by, 'most of the time'?" I asked.

"Well, most of the time the feeling is good. But sometimes, I feel something else: the same sort of feeling, but…worse."

"How's this one feel?"

"Like I'm about to rip someone limb from limb, but I don't know why."

"When do you experience _this _particular feeling?"

Sherlock thought hard. "Whenever I think about my actions causing harm to anyone in this house, or when someone tries to threaten or seduce you or Mallory or anyone I'm working with."

"Seduce?" I repeated, confused.

"Yes, John, seduce!" Sherlock said, growing agitated. He wasn't making any sense! No one's tried to _seduce _any of us but…oh, no.

I remembered the last case all three of us were working on. The body of Alfred Hanes had been found in an alleyway, and the Yard had called us in. We were at a local pub interrogating Hanes' coworkers when one of them began flirting with Mals. I noticed Sherlock stiffen up, but I only thought it was because of the tasteless and rather _vulgar _things the man was saying, but my examination shed new light on everything.

I had to be tactical about my diagnosis. If he realized I was on to something, he'd weasel my suspicions out of me in an instant. I couldn't be sure if this was what I thought it was (this is _Sherlock _we're talking about), so I had to be careful: mask my questions and interpret his answers as best I could.

"Okay, Sherlock," I said in a calming tone. "When was the last time you experienced these feelings?"

The consulting detective hung his head in his large hands and closed his eyes, and I could almost see a film reel rewinding inside his head as he scrolled through his memories. Finally, with his eyes remaining closed, he answered, "This morning."

"When, exactly?" I asked, my hunch looking more and more like a prognosis.

"When Mallory was reading to me," he replied in, remarkably, a business-like tone.

"Can you tell me how often all of these feelings surface when _both _Mals and I are present?"

He calculated for a moment. "About three out of four."

My next question would either seal the deal or break it. "Sherlock?" I asked. "Tell me this: how often is it only Mallory who's there?"

His eyes moved frantically under his eyelids for a moment as he calculated; then they flicked wide open with astonishment. "Every time," he whispered, leaning back into the chair with a bewildered face (yes, it's as odd as you imagine).

This last bit confirmed my theory. Sherlock's never really experienced anything like this before; there was the whole Irene Adler thing, but he wasn't attracted to her at all. How had I not seen it before? They always put up with each other's quirks: Sherlock's bluntness and Mals' fascination with fiction. I passed it off as friendship, but with all these facts out in the open now, it couldn't be just that.

"Oh, my God," I said to myself.

"What?" Sherlock asked, alarmed.

"Oh, surely you've pieced the clues together by now, Sherlock!" I replied. "You've heard yourself, haven't you?"

"I have, John, but what's it all mean?" he retorted.

"Is this what it's like to be you?" I teased. "To know something no one else does? Although, to be fair, it seems everyone knows but you two."

"What are you talking about?" he demanded angrily.

"You love her, Sherlock!" I exclaimed, rising out of my chair. "That feeling of nervous excitement whenever you're around her? That's love! That horrible feeling you get when someone's flirting with her? Jealousy! How haven't you realized any of this?"

Sherlock could only sit there in stunned silence, watching me weave around the room as I ranted and raved.

"You two should see yourselves!" I continued. "Holmes and Hudson, the dream team!"

"Are you jealous or something?" Sherlock shouted, leaping to his feet. "Do you want to be smarter or cleverer or something, or do you want your own paws all over her?"

"That's exactly what I'm talking about, Sherlock!" I exclaimed, taking advantage of his Freudian slip. "That horrible feeling is back again, isn't it? That gnawing fear in your stomach that maybe, _just maybe, _Mals would prefer me to you? That's called jealousy, Sherlock, and you're experiencing it because you find Mallory attractive!"

There was a ringing silence at the end of my outburst, punctured only by our heavy breathing. "And I don't, by the way," I added in a cooled-down tone.

"Don't what?"

"Don't want my 'paws' all over her."

Sherlock's shoulders relaxed a bit with relief. "What do I do now, John?" he asked, collapsing back into the armchair. "For once, I'm…lost. I'm absolutely baffled. You have experience in these affairs; although, while you're good with getting girls, you're not exactly splendid at keeping them."

As I sat down, I ignored the comment, but if it were different circumstances, I would have pointed out his calling me away on cases contributed to most of the break-ups. "You keep talking about this like it's an infection or something, like you need to get rid of it. It's perfectly okay to be in love with someone, Sherlock."

"I'm experiencing a new feeling, John," he said, almost afraid. "A new one, one I haven't felt before." After a pause, he continued, "I feel…vulnerable. Exposed. Like I'm falling short. What's this one?"

This one was easy. "You're afraid, Sherlock," I said, gently as I could. "Afraid that Mallory doesn't love you back."

"Does she?" he asked, almost desperately.

"She puts up with you, doesn't she?" I replied, trying to joke a bit.

"So do you, but _you're_ not in love with me," he retorted.

"Okay, Sherlock," I said, trying to prepare him. "This might sound a bit odd."

"Hasn't everything we've said so far?" he asked humorlessly.

"Just listen, for once."

"…Alright."

I took my seat across from him again and explained as gently as I could, "She does love you Sherlock, but…she doesn't realize you love her."

"How can she not realize?"

"_You're_ the one in love with her and I had to point it out to you!"

Sherlock's eyes widened with horror. "This is why Moriarty took her, isn't it?" he said. "You said before that everyone can recognize…_us_. If you could, John, then who's to say he couldn't?"

He violently shot up again. "We have to find her, John. Now!"


	9. Chapter 8

Chapter 8- Revelations

Mallory

The metal door opened and closed again, and I tried to quell my nerves with a deep breath. "Back for more?" I taunted, trying to put on a brave face.

"How're you holding up, my little Mallie?" Moriarty replied teasingly.

"Alright, but I'd be a lot better if you'd let me go," I retorted. "And don't call me Mallie: it's Mals."

"Oh, Mallie, you know me better than that," he said, coming into view under the scorching spotlight.

"Can't you at least do something about that damn light?" I complained, gesturing upward with my chin. "I've been sweating like a pig."

"Apparently, you don't know me enough," was his snarky reply. His left hand slid out of his pocket and held something casually in front of him, and I could recognize after a few moments that it was a mobile phone. "Would you like to phone a friend?" he offered mockingly.

Mrs. Hudson

I made my way into the boys' sitting room after John called my name. "Any news?" I asked as I came through their door. Sherlock and John were standing close together, heads bent over the former's mobile phone. Suddenly, a familiar voice called out of the phone's speaker.

_"Mum!" _Mallory's garbled voice called out desperately.

_"_Mallory!_" _I called back, hurrying over next to the boys. "Mallory, dear, are you okay?"

_"I'm alright, Mum,"_ she replied. _"I'm still in one piece. How're the boys?"_

"We're here, Mallory," Sherlock answered. "You're on speaker."

My daughter laughed humorlessly. _"So am I."_

_"Hello, Mr. Holmes,"_ a new voice cut in. It was rather soft, but poisonously soft; he sounded like he would order your execution and then insincerely apologize.

"Moriarty," Sherlock growled out.

_"Oh, you won't even say 'hello'?"_ the man called Moriarty asked. Aside to my daughter, he said, _"Can't even be polite. What do you see in him?"_

"Leave her alone," Sherlock said threateningly.

_"_You've_ left her alone, though, haven't you?"_ Moriarty taunted. _"She was alone for just two seconds, and I could have had her halfway around the globe."_

"Where is she?" John angrily demanded.

_"Well, she hasn't left the country, but the rest you'll have to find out,"_ Moriarty said. _"Lord knows I've given you enough hints. I'm surprised you haven't figured it out yet. You're getting slow, Mr. Holmes."_

_"I'm an hour away!" _Mallory exclaimed, trying to give us help. _"An hour by car, probably. I'm somewhere that's been abandoned—"_

_"I really don't think you ought to do that, Mallie dear," _Moriarty's voice said, and I heard the distinct sound of a gun being loaded. _"Shoot that mouth off again, and I'll shoot it off, too."_

"Give me my daughter back!" I exclaimed desperately.

_"I'm sorry, Mrs. Hudson,"_ Moriarty said, his use of my name (and reasonless knowledge of which) sending chills down my spine, _"but he'll have to find her before she simply dies of loneliness. Although, it might not be loneliness that kills her."_

"Mallory, are you still there?" I asked, crying.

_"Yeah, Mum. Don't worry, I won't let him kill me, and neither will Sherlock and John. Boys, you there?"_

"Yes," Sherlock and John answered immediately.

_"John, in case I can't, tell Molly and Lestrade that they've been fantastic. You've been, too: you're one of the best mates ever."_ Mallory faltered for a moment before shakily continuing, _"Sherlock? You listening?"_

"Always," Sherlock replied with a determined expression.

_"Okay, Sherlock, this is probably going to sound really weird and out-of-the-blue,"_ she said, _"but…I love you. I'm sorry, Sherlock, but I do. If you don't like me back, then it's okay. Just had to say it."_

There was silence for a moment while Mallory's proclamation sunk in. I was nearly overcome with the bittersweet-ness of it all, and I needed John's help to stand. John seemed to be nonverbally apologizing to Sherlock, while also nonverbally saying, _I told you so._ Sherlock himself had only a surprised expression that seemed rock-solid, like he was going to be shocked forever.

_"Aww, how adorable,"_ Moriarty said after a few moments. _"Apparently, your dear little Mr. Holmes doesn't know what to say. Won't you say something, Sherlock? Anything at all?"_

_"Sherlock?"_ Mallory called out, a hint of desperation in her voice_. "You there?"_

"I need you to hang on just a little more, Mallory, because I'm coming to get you, and _nothing _will stop me," Sherlock said vehemently. "Moriarty, touch her and—"

_"And what, Sherlock?"_ Moriarty taunted. _"You'll kill me with your bare hands? Rather inelegant, I think: it's not your style."_

"It doesn't matter," Sherlock replied. "I'm just glad that I got my point across." He ended the call and tossed the phone onto an armchair, going still as a statue. John and I surveyed him uneasily, but I'm not quite sure he noticed our examination; he was off staring into space again, his brow furrowed determinedly. I don't know how, but I suddenly knew that Mallory would soon be safely returned to Baker Street: Sherlock Holmes would find her.

Mallory

Moriarty slid the phone back into his pocket, holstered his gun, and said condescendingly, "You've certainly picked a charmer, haven't you?"

I didn't respond. I was processing everything that had just happened: I confessed that I loved Sherlock, and…I think he said he loved me back. He did, didn't he? Not much can push Sherlock to even _say _he wanted to kill someone with his bare hands. I honestly didn't think he was capable of loving someone, much less _me. _I guess Sherlock Holmes will always surprise me.

I was lost in my musing when I finally heard the metal door open and close again, signaling Moriarty's departure. I looked up into that bright, sizzling spotlight with a newfound happiness: I'd be safe again, thanks to the man I'm in love with that loves me back.

I can count on Sherlock Holmes.

John

The doorbell rang, and I left Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson in the sitting room to answer it. Just in case, I brought my gun along, just waiting for an excuse to shoot the son of a bitch that took one of my best mates from me. However, a look through the peephole revealed that it was only Lestrade, so I reluctantly holstered my gun and opened the door to admit him.

"Hello, John," he greeted with urgency in his voice.

"Hello," I replied, gesturing for him to come inside. He did so, and I nearly shut the door when I heard a feminine voice say, "Hey, what about me?"

I opened the door again to find Molly standing there; Lestrade's bulkier form must have hidden her. "Hello, Molly," I said confusedly, inviting her in. "Sorry, I didn't see you there."

"It's alright," she said. "I just came over for moral support, you know? Mals' poor mother must need it most."

"Oh, you'd be surprised," I said as we trooped up the stairs after Lestrade.

"Hello, Gregory, Molly," Mrs. Hudson said when we came back. "Any news?"

"Obviously," Sherlock said, back to his old self.

"What have you found?" I asked.

"Well, we've discovered that her phone hasn't been destroyed," Lestrade explained. "It's just been left on until the battery ran out. We've been able to track down the last place Mallory's phone was before it died. I've got techs working out the specific location now. I thought you might want to come along."

Sherlock didn't even say anything, but strode toward the door and grabbed his scarf and coat. "Well, what are you waiting for?" he demanded. "Let's go!"

"Would you like me to stay with you, Mrs. Hudson?" Molly asked.

"Yes, dear," Mrs. Hudson replied. "Thank you."

Lestrade and I trooped off after Sherlock, who was already down the stairs and halfway across the hall. He walked past the open door of 221A but then stopped, turned around, and strode through the doorway of Mals' flat. He reappeared a moment later with Mals' raincoat slung over his arm, grimly determined.

"Ah!" Lestrade exclaimed from behind me. "They've texted me the address. Let's go!"

I saw Sherlock discreetly slide open a drawer in the front hall and pocket a gun. I, not as discreetly, readied my own. Lestrade led us to the Yard vehicle and got in the front seat.

We're coming, Mals!


	10. Chapter 9

Chapter 9- Rescue at the Royston

Mallory

I've been handcuffed to this table for six hours. It's been four hours since I've woken up, and only twenty minutes since Moriarty called Sherlock. I think maybe my newfound confidence and anticipation were throwing the toll my kidnapping had taken on me into greater relief: I began feeling more uncomfortable, almost sick. The spotlight seemed hotter and brighter than ever.

I tried not to struggle against my bonds for the umpteenth time when I grew impatient with Sherlock. I mean, this is _Sherlock Holmes_ we're talking about, the man who can tell an airline pilot by his left thumb. But then again, we're also dealing with James Moriarty, the man who could baffle Sherlock Holmes. I had to be patient; Sherlock had promised he would come, and while he's many things (rude, blunt, and condescending, to name a few), he's also a man of his word.

He would come.

John

"Oh, this doesn't make any sense!" Sherlock angrily complained as we pulled into the lot at the British Museum. "Why would he hold her in Trafalgar Square?"

"This is only where the phone died, not where she was taken," Lestrade pointed out. "Backup's only ten minutes behind us, and they're enough to cover a ten-mile radius. How charged was her mobile when she was taken?"

"Almost all the way," I answered, having taken the liberty of personally charging her phone the night before.

"He wouldn't have taken her far," Sherlock added. "He'd want her to be tantalizingly close; he'd want to hang it over my head that it took me so long to find her when she was so close."

"She's probably within five kilometers of here, then," Lestrade said. I looked around the Square and took everything in: the British Museum dominated the place, with all the little shops and cafés littered around. People of all ages milled about leisurely, talking with friends or reading guidebooks. I came here quite often with old university mates, and once or twice with Mallory. She especially loved the paleontology exhibit at the Museum. I swore that when we found her, I'd take her again.

"She could be anywhere!" Sherlock exclaimed. Suddenly, his phone rang, and it was out of his pocket in a flash. He read the text message with an impassive face, before turning it in my direction. I read quickly, eager for a clue.

_It's showtime!_

_M _

"Two words?" I said incredulously. "Two bleeding words are all he gives us?"

"Two words, and very little time," Sherlock replied as Lestrade read the message.

"What's the correlation?" I asked. "He said before that he's been giving us hints. But where were they?"

"They must have been in the texts he sent us," Sherlock answered, already scrolling through his previous messages. I moved over to his side to read them all:

_The star is all prepped and ready!_

_It's showtime!_

And then there was the message he left in Mallory's flat. I unfolded it from my pocket and smoothed it out for Lestrade:

_So you've deduced my plan. Bravo! There's plenty more where that came from._

I had also scribbled down the messages Mals had received on _her _phone from Moriarty, thanks to her Mephone account.

_Enjoy my preview? Can't wait for the show._

_Trust me, sweetheart, you won't: you're my leading lady._

"They're all things that have to do with show business," I said incredulously. "How did we not pick that up before?"

"There's got to be more than that," Sherlock said. "He wouldn't just tell us she's being held in a television studio."

"He's not," Lestrade said. "The word_ bravo _is actually two clues: it has to do with show business, and also with theatre. _Bravo _is a theatre term: it's used to congratulate an actor or actress on a _stage performance."_

Sherlock and I both looked at Lestrade in amazement.

"What?" he asked indignantly. "My sister used to do a lot of theatre. Am I not allowed to think of something once in a while?"

"Wait…Lestrade, you're exactly right!" Sherlock replied. "Remember when he called? Moriarty said around the _globe._ No one says 'around the globe': it's either 'around the world' or 'across the globe'."

"D'you mean the Globe Theatre?" I asked. "The one Shakespeare himself built?"

"The most iconic theatre in the country. You're brilliant, Lestrade, simply brilliant!" Sherlock concluded as he began typing furiously on his phone. I went over to the closest café and took a map of Trafalgar Square from a shelf, spreading it out when I reached the other two men.

"How many theatres are there near Trafalgar Square?" Lestrade asked.

"Only one," Sherlock answered, turning the mobile toward us. "Royston Theatre. It's been abandoned since 2003."

"It's just a kilometer away," I said, pointing to the map. Sherlock pulled the map toward him, and he studied it for only a second before turning around and climbing into the car. Lestrade and I quickly followed, and we drove hell-for-leather toward Royston Theatre, ready to get our best mate back.

Mallory

The metal door opened and closed again after a pause, signaling Moriarty's arrival. "They should be along any minute now," he said, coming close to my table. "If they haven't worked it out by now, then they're hopeless."

"If you know why they're coming, why stay here?" I asked. "You want to keep me away from them, so why are you letting them come for me?"

"Haven't you deduced it yet?" Moriarty replied. "I don't _care_ if they catch me. I've already set your death in motion, Mallie dear; in fact, you should be dying right this minute. So long as your _darling _Sherlock sees you die, I'll be satisfied."

"How do you plan on killing me, then?" I asked.

He smirked maliciously. "You'll find out." He slowly walked around my table, dragging his fingers along the edge behind him. "The hero comes to save his beloved only to see her die right in front of his very eyes. The irony's simply _delicious. _You have to admit, it's an attractive finish."

"So's the hero saving the day," a deep, achingly-familiar voice said from behind Moriarty.

Moriarty's smirk was replaced by the condescending expression he wore whenever he addressed Sherlock. "Oh, finally," Moriarty whined, turning around to face the consulting detective standing a few feet away. "I was wondering how long you'd take."

Sherlock smirked humorlessly. "Didn't you hear the pause between the door opening and closing?"

"Of course," Moriarty replied. "I was counting on it."

John was only a few steps behind Sherlock, and Lestrade only a few steps behind John. "Let her go," John demanded, his gun already out. Lestrade pulled his own out, but Sherlock remained motionless, glaring at Moriarty with a quiet anger.

"Oh, I don't think you'd want to do that," Moriarty said from my right.

"Why are you doing this?" Sherlock demanded.

"Oh, I've been bored," Moriarty replied. "And so have you, Sherlock. Besides, you two act so sickeningly _in love_, I just decided to end everyone's misery and get it out in the open. I daresay I've done you a favor. You really should be thanking me, Sherlock. Where are your manners?"

"Back in Mallory's flat," Sherlock replied scathingly,

"She's been so good," Moriarty said, gazing down at me. "She asks all the right questions. I understand why you've fallen for her." And if you can believe it, he began _stroking _the side of my face lovingly, almost as if he were petting a cat.

The touch made Sherlock finally snap. "Don't touch her!" Sherlock yelled, pulling a gun from his pocket and pointing it squarely at Moriarty's chest.

"Oh, Sherlock, you shouldn't have done that," Moriarty taunted, pulling a gun from the back of his left pocket. He held it up for a second, regarding it with almost a playful curiosity, before he fully extended his arm and pointed the gun straight at my temple. "You pull your trigger, I'll pull mine. And you, Sherlock, of all people, are especially afraid of that happening, aren't you?"

"Sherlock, get out of here!" I exclaimed, straining against my handcuffs. "John, Greg, leave!"

"Not without you!" Sherlock replied, his eyes remaining locked on Moriarty.

"Oh, I love this!" Moriarty said with relish. "The selflessness of it all! The damsel in distress begging for the love of her life to save his own, even when he's come all this way to save her. It's really brilliant, actually."

"Let her go, Moriarty," Lestrade demanded.

"Do you think it'll be that easy?" the evil genius asked. As Moriarty was addressing Lestrade, Sherlock took the brief opportunity to glance at me. Well-masked as it was, I could see the regret in his clear green eyes, regret that came from my kidnapping. I tried to send him a look that told him I forgave him, but I'm not sure if he got it: his eyes had darted up to the spotlight and back at me. At first, I thought he was just being himself again, but then an idea (probably _his _idea) came to me.

"Why shouldn't it be?" I taunted. "You've already bloody led them to me; you've put the nail in your own coffin!"

"Maybe I have," the evil genius replied. "But I've also nearly nailed yours shut." He stole a quick look back at me to gauge my reaction, which is what I hoped for: my comment had been the perfect distraction to initiate my escape.

While Moriarty glanced at me, Sherlock raised his arm and shot the spotlight, producing a wide shower of sparks and burning any of my exposed skin. While everyone (meaning everyone who wasn't in handcuffs) ducked for cover, John rushed up and tackled the evil mastermind to the ground while Sherlock pulled a few pins out of his pocket and set the gun on my table, immediately going to work picking my hands free.

"Sorry about the light. Did you get burned badly?" Sherlock asked as the pins rattled in my handcuffs.

"I'm alright," I replied, relieved that finally I was getting out of here. Though I was happy, I had begun feeling sick. I wondered if it had to do with the shooting of the spotlight, but I didn't have time to worry about that now. I heard Lestrade snap the handcuffs on Moriarty as my left hand came free. Wasting no time, I wrapped my fingers around the nape of Sherlock's neck, propped myself up a bit on my elbow, and brought his lips down to mine.

It wasn't one of those _oh-my-God-I-missed-you-so-much _kisses; nor was it a _let's-have-sex-on-this-table-right-now _sort of kiss. It's hard to describe in words, really. It was simple, I could tell you that: the second our lips met, it seemed that we completely stopped moving. We were so shocked at my actions, we couldn't function properly. We remained frozen for what had to be three seconds but felt like hours, completely still; not even our lips moved. But even though we seemed to become marble statues, I could still feel emotions coming from Sherlock: emotions I can't really put down in writing. It was just the sort of kiss that made you stop breathing for a second and made all brain function grind to a halt. We separated slowly, eyes half-open, and I could see his confusion. "Didn't see that coming, did you?" I quipped, trying to laugh away my embarrassment.

"No," Sherlock said, searching my face for more information one last moment before setting to work on my other restrained hand. As I tried to concentrate on keeping my stomach down, I caught- or fancied I caught- a slight smile tugging the corners of Sherlock's mouth upward.

When my right hand was free, I struggled into a sitting position, rubbing my wrists where the cuffs had cut into my skin. As Sherlock went to work on my right ankle, I glanced over at Lestrade, who was leading a handcuffed Moriarty away. "You might want to get her a breath mint soon, Inspector," the evil genius said, just loudly enough for me to here. I wondered about what he meant when suddenly, I felt an intense wave of nausea. It felt like my insides were forcing their way out of me. Before I could try and stop it, something wet and warm exploded from my throat and landed on the table in front of me, narrowly missing Sherlock's curly hair. I thought it was vomit, but it tasted different in the back of my throat, and when I finally looked, the substance coating the table was a vivid red that scared the hell out of me.

I don't know how he did it, but Moriarty made me cough up blood.

John

I heard a loud thump on my right, and I turned to find Mallory hanging half off the table, restrained only by the single handcuff left on her ankle. In her distress at discovering she had vomited blood, she had instinctively tried to crawl away, and that had sent her off. Sherlock was working on the last handcuff, her left ankle, and I rushed over to help her back up.

"John—my blood," she choked out, grabbing my shoulders for dear life when she was sitting up. I glanced down to see the blood she coughed up moments before, and that made the doctor in me took charge, and I began trying to calm her down.

"Mals, look at me," I said. "You'll be okay, alright? Everything will be alright." Sherlock finished picking the last lock, and I turned Mals' body completely toward me. She seemed to be growing worse: she was fine before, but everything went downhill when we came to the rescue.

"Moriarty wanted me to shoot the spotlight," Sherlock said, coming around the table to face Mallory.

"Why?" I asked as Mals grew dangerously exhausted-looking.

"Something from the light worsened her condition," Sherlock replied, trying to keep Mals from collapsing onto the table. "Get her outside, she needs a hospital!"

Before I could even move, Sherlock pressed himself into Mallory's body, wrapping one arm around her back and another beneath her legs, lifting her off the table. He held her across him, as if he were holding a sleepy child. Mallory's left forearm dangled limply over Sherlock's shoulder, her head lolling from side to side as Sherlock walked toward the door. I could see the grim, determined expression on his face as he marched to the fire exit we had entered through, only to find it closed. I hurried forward only to watch Sherlock raise one long leg and kick the door open, maneuvering through so as to not hit Mallory's head or feet. I followed closely with my gun raised, suspicious at the lack of guards. We rushed through the theatre and out into the sunset of Trafalgar Square, into the ring of waiting ambulances and Yard officers, lights ablaze and sirens blaring.

"Ambulance!" Sherlock called out, whirling around. "I need an ambulance!" Almost immediately, three Emergency Responders with a stretcher rushed up next to him, ready to spirit Mallory away to the hospital. I'll never forget the next thing I saw: Sherlock was gently laying Mals down on the stretcher like she was made of glass, the expression on his face one of grim regret. It was almost something out of one of those romance movies Mals always complains about: her sweaty brown hair was draped across the mattress on the stretcher, her blue eyes half-closed with whatever sickness now plagued her. Sherlock stood over her broodingly, looking down at her with…I think it might actually have been _sorrow. _Mallory's hand closest to Sherlock twitched upward, and then the medics wheeled her away, Sherlock and I following suit.

"Phone Molly," Sherlock ordered, coat billowing as he strode after Mallory. "Tell her that Mallory is safe, and to bring Mrs. Hudson to the hospital." I pulled my mobile out and quickly dialed the number, anxious for Mals' well-being.

"_What's up, John?"_ Molly's voice asked.

"We found her," I replied, following Sherlock into the ambulance with Mallory.

There was silence on the other end for a moment. "Molly?" I called uncertainly.

_"Mrs. Hudson!"_ I heard Molly call out. _"Mrs. Hudson, they found her!"_ There was unrecognizable commotion, and then Molly asked. _"Is she safe? Where are you?"_

"We're heading to St. Bart's," I said. "We'll meet you there."

_"See you there!"_ Molly replied, and the line went dead. I slid my phone back into my pocket as the ambulance doors slammed shut, Sherlock and I riding along at Mallory's side. She was just lying there groggily: she was about to lose consciousness. I was trying to find the words to somehow reassure and comfort her and coming up with nothing, when Sherlock did something I've never seen him do: he reached over and tenderly moved some hair out of Mallory's eyes and rested his hand on her cheek. She looked up at him through confused, bleary eyes and weakly clutched at the air, grasping Sherlock's forearm when she found it. Their eyes met for a moment- blue boring into green and green boring into blue- before Mallory finally succumbed to the toxin and lost consciousness, eyelids fluttering shut. I could see the effort she put forth to stay awake, but whatever Moriarty had given her was too strong. Sherlock stroked his thumb across her temple almost _lovingly,_ and I was glad he was too preoccupied to notice my surprise.

_Hang on, Mals, _I thought anxiously. _Just hang on a little bit more, and you'll be able to see everything Sherlock does and you used to not notice._


	11. Chapter 10

Chapter 10- Recuperation and Revelation

Mallory

A dull pounding inside my skull woke me from a very deep sleep, and I blearily blinked open my eyes. The sudden brightness alarmed me for a second after being tied under a spotlight for approximately six hours, but once I got used to the light I could see I was in an unfamiliar, too-white room with strange, scientific-looking equipment: a hospital room, then. I was clad in a thin hospital gown with the most hideous pink polka dots, and I glanced down at my upper arm to see a small, clear tube burrowing into my skin and steadily introducing a watery substance into my system. I looked around: everyone was gathered at my bedside: Sherlock, John, Mum, and Molly were there, and I think there was a card from Lestrade and Sally on the table.

"Hello, sweetheart," Mum cooed softly from her chair on my right, smoothing back my hair and kissing my forehead. "Don't do that ever again, you hear?"

I smiled tiredly. "I promise," I said, weakly wrapping my arms around her. She awkwardly returned the hug, and I was glad for warmth from a source other than that damn spotlight.

"Oh, Mals," Molly said from beside Mum. "You had us scared."

"Oh, you know me," I replied. "It's going to take more than a psycho genius to do me in." Molly chuckled at my remark, and John spoke up.

"Have a good sleep, then?" he asked jokingly from the foot of my bed.

"I'm just glad I'm in an actual bed," I replied.

John chuckled, and then filled me in on what happened after I passed out. "You were out the entire night; it's just half past six now. We started treating you as soon as we got in, and now whatever toxin's been in your system's been neutralized. You'll be fine in a few days."

"Thank God," I said. Glancing over at Sherlock, who remained impassive and silent, I said, "Don't give me all the details just yet; I need to wake up a bit."

Sherlock displayed a tiny smirk and said nothing.

"Oh, Mallory dear, I'm so glad you're safe," Mum said. "I was so worried."

"Thank Sherlock and John," I replied, glancing at the genius and the army doctor. "And Lestrade, too, when he gets back."

"How'd you know he was here?" Molly asked.

"The card," I answered, nodding toward the table. "Come on, I live next door to the smartest man on Earth; you don't think I picked a few things up?"

Molly's face split into a grin. "I suppose so. It's good to know you're still the same old Mals after what happened."

"She's a tough one," Sherlock finally said from my left, watching me almost admiringly. "It's hard to get to her." There was a moment of silence before Molly whispered, "Mrs. Hudson, why don't we go get some tea?"

"Sure, dear," my mother quietly replied, and the two left the room. I fancied I caught a wink from Molly as she went through the door.

Getting up, John said, "I'll go check on those x-rays, then; make sure everything's shipshape."

"There weren't any x-rays," Sherlock said, confused, but John was already closing the door behind him. When the door had fallen shut, I turned my face back to him.

"Okay, Sherlock, tell me everything," I said. "What was wrong with me? Don't hold back."

"It was the makeup," Sherlock replied offhandedly, staring at the closed door. "The toxin was laced in the makeup he put on you, and he kept the light focused on you to make you sweat. That was how it got into your system. We took it off as soon as we got here and treated you accordingly."

"The _makeup?" _I asked incredulously. "Well, that settles it: I'm never wearing any of the stuff again."

Sherlock broke his eyes away from the door to look down at me. "You don't need it," he stated matter-of-factly.

"Aww," I said. "I think that's the first time you complimented me."

Sherlock regarded me with curiosity before shaking himself and continuing, "At the rate the toxin was progressing through your system, you should have been coughing up blood twenty minutes early and it ought to have killed you at the time I came to rescue you."

"Yeah," I interrupted. "Moriarty's whole plan was for you to watch me die. But why didn't it work? Why am I still alive? This is Moriarty we're talking about: he doesn't simply _miscalculate _something."

Sherlock reached over and tapped the arm with the needle feeding liquid into me. "You know what that is? _Saline. _It's salt, Mals. With enough salt introduced into your body, the toxin will be neutralized and you'll be fine."

"Oh, my God," I said, eyes wide with realization. "I was eating crisps before!"

Sherlock nodded approvingly. "Exactly. Your disgusting salt-and-vinegar crisps saved you."

"Now you can't say I have to throw them away," I replied cockily, before I came to another realization. "Hey, you finally used my nickname!"

"What?"

"You called me 'Mals'!" I said excitedly. "Oh, do you know how long I've wanted to hear that?"

Another rather awkward silence fell between us, and in an attempt to break it, I said quietly, "You know, I said, 'Don't hold back', and you did."

"What did I leave out?" he asked confusedly.

"How was…_it _for you?" I asked shyly.

"How was _what _for me?"

"The kiss, Sherlock, our kiss!" I exclaimed exasperatedly, fed up at his cluelessness.

"Oh," the master observer said, slightly put out. "Well, I thought it was rather…satisfactory."

"That's it?" I asked quietly, trying to hide my disappointment. "Just satisfactory?"

Something seemed to come over Sherlock at my words: just something in his eyes made it seem like he had been pulled out of another world and back into this one. He sat up straighter and moved closer to the edge of his chair, and, unbelievably, _took my hand._ He didn't give me enough time to process everything before he spoke again.

"No, Mallory," he said vehemently his hand tightening around mine- the one attached to the arm without the syringe. "It was _not _just satisfactory. It wonderful, and glorious, and amazing, and…everything, just like you. I—" He faltered here for a moment, scanning my face for information, before continuing, "Mallory Hudson…I love you."

For a few moments, I didn't feel anything but blank shock, and then seemingly every emotion under the sun hit me like a ton of bricks. There was elation, joy, nervousness, and excitement, and of course the love I felt for Sherlock in return. I couldn't muster any words adequate enough to say back, so I simply interlaced the fingers of our joined hands, lifted them up to my lips, and kissed the back of his hand.

"I love you, too," I finally said, almost breathless with shock.

Sherlock chuckled humorlessly. "No, you don't," he said ruefully, averting his gaze. "You're only saying that because you associate mainly myself with your rescue. You're only grateful, not in love with me."

Though what I did next was painful due to the aches of my body and effects of my treatment, I will never regret it: I sat up fully, pulled Sherlock closer to me, and kissed him—again. It was sort of like our first one: there was the same shock and simplicity, and I could feel the love rolling off him. But it was also _unlike _our first kiss: our lips moved this time, perfectly in sync, and we never once faltered. We pulled away after about five seconds, and I said in a low voice, "If you still think I'm only _grateful _that you saved me, then you are the dumbest genius on the planet."

You could almost touch the relief on Sherlock's face. His other hand came up to my face and held my cheek, and I relished his touch. "Sweet Mallory," he said, almost as if he weren't the one saying it. "_My _sweet Mallory."

"You finally get it," I said with relief, but then another question occurred to me. "Hey, how'd you know what the toxin was? John said you started treating me as soon as you brought me in. How'd you know what to do?"

"I tasted it in your lipstick," Sherlock replied matter-of-factly. I couldn't help but giggle a bit at his bluntness.

"Mals, we brought you some tea, we thought—oh, sorry," Molly's voice said from near the door. I swiveled around and Sherlock's hand fell from my face, though my left hand and his right remained joined. Molly had come back in with Mum, who was holding a Styrofoam to-go mug, and the latter said, "Oh, um…we'll just go see to John, then." Mum put the mug on my table and pulled Molly out of the room. I tried to laugh away the embarrassed blush when I felt a large hand on my face, pulling it back around to face Sherlock. He let go of my hand and brought both to my face before tilting my head downward and placing a kiss on my forehead.

"Go to sleep," he said quietly, laying me back down on the bed gently. "You need your rest."

He got up and moved around my bed, and I asked, "Where are you going?"

"Not far," he replied as he neared the door.

"See you back home," I said as he opened the door and took a step outside.

"See you there," he said with a smile as the door closed.


	12. Epilogue

Epilogue- Another Morning on Baker Street

*One month later*

"Sherlock!" I called up the stairs, tying my dark brown hair into a bun. "Come down, we're opening presents!"

Sherlock's tall, imposing form appeared at the landing, wearing his usual black suit. "Hang on," I called up, raising a hand in the universal gesture for 'halt'. "Go back and put on the hat."

"Why should I?" he complained, but he trudged back to his flat when I raised my eyebrow: a sure sign of danger. It's been a month since my kidnapping, and we've all been doing well: Mum's been making meal after delicious meal for us, and we're definitely not complaining. John said he's thinking about writing a _novel _based on my experience (I totally supported it, but John wasn't so sure). Moriarty behaved himself for a bit, but escaped custody after three days, and Sherlock was convinced he'd try to lie low for a while, so there wasn't much of a man-hunt put together for him. Truth be told, I was glad he was long-gone: if I ever saw him again, it'd be far too soon. I had made a speedy recovery and rejoined the Yard as soon as Lestrade would let me, but I wasn't leaving the house without a fully-charged cell phone anymore. Sherlock's been relatively the same since he and I began going out (all the way down to his usual bluntness), but there were still some instances where you could see his affection: a kiss on the temple here, a taking of my hand there. You should have seen him on the Jones homicide last week: when Harry Jones, the murderer, was chasing me down in a warehouse, Sherlock simply went mad and tackled Jones to the ground instead of coming up with some brilliant scheme to trap him. (Although, he ended up revealing that that _was _the brilliant scheme: let Jones chase me and get him when he was distracted.) Sherlock may not be a knight in shining armor, but he's my detective in a trench coat; besides, how on Earth could you chase down a criminal in a heavy suit of armor?

"Happy?" Sherlock whined, his heavy footfalls jerking me out of my reverie. He trooped downstairs sporting a fluffy red-and-white Father Christmas hat. It looked strange on him: serious Sherlock wearing this velvet hat with the giant white puff dangling by his ear? It was like a whole new species had come into existence.

"Very," I answered, sliding my hands up his chest. His own arms found their way around my waist and he kissed me on the nose. "Happy Christmas, my dear Sherlock," I said, grinning up at him.

"Happy Christmas, Mals," he replied, returning my grin with a smile of his own. We stood there for a few moments, just happy in each other's presence, when I remembered what day it was.

"My God, it's Christmas!" I exclaimed, jerking away from Sherlock. "Oh, come on, then: it's time for presents!" I took him by the hand and dragged him into my own flat, where the others were gathered for the celebration: John, wearing his best white jumper, sat in Sherlock's usual chair, much to Sherlock's chagrin. Mum, wrapped in her warmest shawls, was just coming from the kitchen with another plate of cookies. My Christmas tree was the centerpiece of the room: it was decorated beautifully in the widest corner, with tinsel and lights and ornaments aplenty, the angel on top surveying us all. Garland hung from every wall in my flat, and holly and mistletoe hung from every open doorway. My clothes matched my flat: I wore a festive red jumper, my warmest black slacks, and my red winter boots, all slightly glittery from the sparkly ornaments we'd put up last-minute today.

"My God, you got him into the hat," John said, genuinely astonished.

"Amazing!" Mum added jokingly.

"It makes me look ridiculous," Sherlock muttered.

"I think it makes you look handsome," I replied. Sherlock cocked an eyebrow, doubtful. "Really," I added, taking his arm.

"Shall we begin?" Mum said, setting the cookies down and moving to the tree.

"Let's," I replied. I let go of Sherlock and sat cross-legged down on the floor, and both boys looked at me in confusion. "What?" I asked. "You _always_ sit on the floor when you open presents. Mum can't because of her hip, but you two have no excuse. Get down here!"

The boys exchanged a glance for a moment, and then John slid from his seat to the floor while Sherlock remained unmoving. "Oh, come on, Sherlock," John said across from me as I high-fived him. "Get into the holiday spirit."

I raised my eyebrow, and Sherlock quickly sat down next to me. Mum lowered herself carefully into my chair, and I said, "Now that we're all ready, let's begin!"

I reached under the tree and brought out the first present, a large, heavy rectangle. Tilting it to find the nametag, I read off, "To John, from Mrs. Hudson."

I handed the package to John, who ripped off the wrapping paper to find a box of homemade fudge. "Oh, thank you, Mrs. Hudson," John said, opening the lid and sniffing the fudge. "Chocolate: my favorite."

"You're welcome, dearie," Mum replied. I reached for the next present as John tried a bit of the fudge, and from his distinct sound of approval I concluded he liked it.

"To Mum, from Mals," I read off the familiar package. I handed the small box to my mum, who opened it to find the opal necklace she'd been wanting since August.

"Mallory!" she exclaimed, showing the necklace off to the boys.

"You're welcome," I replied, reaching for the next gift. "To Mals, from John," I read, tearing the wrapping paper of what seemed to be a shoebox. I was right, and I took the lid off to reveal a brand-new pair of ankle-high boots.

"Oh, John, thank you!" I said, kicking off my red boots and slipping these new ones on. "How'd you get my size? _I _don't even know my own shoe size!" I exclaimed, holding them up to the light in the window.

"How d'you think?" John replied, nodding his head toward Sherlock. I smirked, inwardly marveling at just how much Sherlock could tell about a person.

I retrieved the next gift accidentally-on-purpose. "To Sherlock, from Mals," I read, recognizing the package. I handed it to the intended recipient with a puckish grin, and he carefully tore off the wrapping paper to find a long, wide, black box. Casting a curious look at me, he opened the lid and chuckled a bit, then held up a gigantic, round magnifying glass.

"Thought it would go with your new hat perfectly," I said jokingly, referring to the deerstalker Sherlock recently had to wear as a disguise.

Sherlock actually managed a smile. "Thank you, Mallory," he said, glancing up at me. "I love it."

And so we continued, always exclaiming our thanks when we opened our presents. Mum had made everyone some sort of Christmas sweet, and John had followed my lead and gotten Sherlock another gag gift: a large notebook and gigantic pen. Mum ended up getting a new recipe book for cakes and cookies from John and a thick new scarf from Sherlock. Sherlock had given John a book about gun maintenance, which he was currently flipping through as I reached for the last present under the tree.

"To Mallory, from Sherlock," I said, looking over at the handsome man sitting next to me. I eagerly ripped the wrapping paper off the semi-thick rectangle to reveal a brand-new copy of _Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone_, the light shining off the silvery letters.

"Oh my God!" I said, holding the book up for everyone to see.

"Your current copy needed replacing," Sherlock said, and I wrapped an arm around his waist in a side-hug. "Open it," he added, with that amazing crinkly-eyed smile. I glanced down at the book and opened the front cover, where Sherlock's neat print spelled out a message.

_Dear Mallory,_

_I hope you read this one so much it needs replacing again. I can't wait until we finish your entire shelf of favorites—book __and__ movie. _

_Love, Sherlock_

I read the message aloud to everyone, and got an "Aww!" from Mum. I could see John sneak a discreet thumbs-up to Sherlock. I kissed Sherlock's cheek, and then got up to clean up the wrapping paper. "Anyone want to help?" I asked.

"Allow me," Sherlock said, standing up next to me. John was digging back into his fudge and Mum was flipping through her cookbook, so I gathered up a chunk of the paper and progressed to the kitchen, with Sherlock following suit.

I dumped the paper into the garbage can and moved over to allow Sherlock, and we found ourselves under some mistletoe I'd put up in preparation for our party. My eyes flicked from the incriminating mistletoe to Sherlock's face, who looked just as surprised as me. The corner of my mouth twitched upward, but the rest of me remained motionless, as did Sherlock.

"Oh, John, look!" Mum said, noticing us. "They're under the mistletoe!"

I glanced back at them for a second, enough to notice that they were both turned toward us. Sherlock remained impassive for a moment, before declaring, "Well, if I'm going to do this, I'm going to do it right." He reached up and viciously ripped the Father Christmas cap from his head, tossing it onto the dinner table. "Got that stupid thing off," he muttered, before becoming a completely different man, or so it seemed to me.

His arms wrapped around my waist and pulled me to him, and I instinctively braced my hands against his chest. One of his hands reached behind my head and pulled out my hair tie, so my wavy brown locks fell to just between my shoulder blades. "You look better with your hair down," Sherlock explained quietly as he tossed the hair tie to the floor and replaced his hand on the small of my back.

"Since when are _you _the romantic one?" I asked, confused but pleased with this sudden attitude change.

"It's Christmas," Sherlock answered simply before pulling me closer and planting an insanely romantic kiss upon my lips.

It was like something out of a romantic comedy: for a moment, it felt like we were kissing on a beach as a wave splashed up against the rock we were standing on, but then we both started smiling the next. My body had sort of collapsed into his, and now I was leaning up against him with one newly-booted foot crossed behind the other.

We honestly didn't want to stop kissing: we both grew more aggressive toward the end. "Oh, Sherlock, you've been holding back," I said when we had separated.

I only got a small smirk from him when the door to my flat burst open.

"Holmes, Hudson, John—," Lestrade's urgent voice said, before abruptly cutting off—he must have noticed Sherlock and I. "Sorry, am I interrupting—"

"Don't worry about it," I cut in, walking away from Sherlock to greet Lestrade. "Something tells me you're not here for the holidays."

"You're right," Lestrade said as John stood up and moved closer. "A man's been found dead in one of the London Eye cars, and we're a bit out of our depth."

Mum craned her neck around to look at us in my chair. John, Sherlock and I glanced at each other for a moment, and you could see how much we wanted to go see this body: a man found dead in the London Eye with no explanation? It was a Christmas present for all of us. But it _was_ Christmas after all, and we couldn't just leave Mum here all alone.

"What are you waiting for, then?" Mum said from her seat. "Go and get him! I know you want to; just go!"

Sherlock and I glanced at each other, and the corners of our lips twitched upward in a smirk. "Well then," Sherlock said, clapping his hands together. "Shall we?" Instantly, the three of us jumped into action: John got his gun, Sherlock looked over the photos Lestrade brought, and I grabbed my Scotland Yard badge from my dresser in the bedroom.

"Bye, Mum!" I called.

"Happy Christmas, darling!" she called back.

"Ready, love?" Sherlock asked, waiting for me in the hall as I pulled on my raincoat.

"I was born ready, sweetheart," I answered, and together we walked into the bitterly cold December air of Baker Street, our hands clasped together.

My name is Mallory Hudson. I'm a Detective Inspector for the Scotland Yard. My mum rents out flats to two men I would (and have) put my life into the hands of: Dr. John Watson, my best mate, was one of them. The other I was hopelessly in love with, and he was hopelessly in love with me: the only consulting detective in the world, Mr. Sherlock Holmes.


End file.
